May
by: Mary Oliver
What lay on the road was no mere handful of snake. It was the copperhead at last, golden under the street lamp. I hope to see everything in the world before I die. I knelt on the road and stared. Its head was wedge-shaped and fell back to the unexpected slimness of a neck. The body itself was thick, tense, electric. Clearly this wasn't black snake looking down from the limbs of a tree, or green snake, or the garter, whizzing over the rocks. Where these had, oh, such shyness, this one had none. When I moved a little, it turned and clamped its eyes on mine; then it jerked toward me. I jumped back and watched as it flowed on across the road and down into the dark. My heart was pounding. I stood a while, listening to the small sounds of the woods and looking at the stars. After excitement we are so restful. When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive.
Oliver is frightened by the copperhead, jumps back when it tries to strike at her. Her heart pounds at the proximity of death, the nearness of her escape from the snake's venom. It's a thrill of adrenaline that makes her acutely aware of her aliveness. The working of her body. The small sounds in the woods. The stars spinning above.
I think most of my disciples reading this post have had their fair share of near misses like the one Oliver describes in this poem. If you drive a car, there are those moments when you've almost been hit at a busy intersection. If you've jumped off a cliff into deep water, there's the rush of gravity and fist of cold squeezing air from your lungs as you submerge. If you've had a nightmare (who hasn't?), it's the first seconds after waking when every nerve in your body is sparking and reality seems transparent, liquid.
After these near misses, for a few, few moments, the universe and everything in it comes into extreme focus. You can feel each corpuscle of blood moving through your veins. The planet spinning on its axis at 1,000 miles per hour. Trees and blades of grass stretching toward the sun. As Oliver says, when the thumb of fear lifts, we are reminded how alive we really are.
I have a lot of fears that I live with every day, from the moment I get out of bed in the morning to when my head hits the pillow again at night. Everyday fears. Failure. Loss. Disappointment. Trump supporters. These kinds of fears don't trigger fight-or-flight responses. They just make you feel shitty.
However, for the last three days, I've dealt with a more present fear. For some reason, I've woken up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweats. Last night, as I surfaced from unconsciousness, I realized I was reciting the "Our Father." Loudly. As if I was trying to ward off some evil.
I kind of don't want to fall asleep tonight.
I don't remember the substance of the nightmares I've been experiencing. I've never kept dream journals. Usually, about ten seconds after I open my eyes, any movie that my unconscious was screening in the theater of my skull is gone. So, I don't know what these bad dreams are about.
They might have to do with my over-stressed life--library programming, summer teaching at the university. Or maybe some leftover anxiety from the dog attack a few months ago. Or perhaps the upcoming anniversary of my sister's death.
Oliver sees fear as a catalyst for grace--a reminder of the wonders of being alive. At the moment, I see fear as a catalyst for insomnia.
I wish I could be more like my puppy. When I watch her dream, with paws twitching and tiny barks huffing out of her black lips, I know she's chasing a chipmunk or running along a beach or fetching her ball.
No near misses for her. Or failure. Or loss. Or fear. Just pure canine joy.
Maybe Saint Marty should count copperheads or chipmunks to fall asleep tonight. Or take a sleeping pill.
No comments:
Post a Comment